Madness of Two- MorMor + Severich

the same war his dad rehearsed

I didn't want to fall in love with Sebastian Moran. I was quite actively against it, in fact. There's just something about his crazy and my crazy that... clicks. We're two fucked up storms that collided and made- one bigger fucked up storm, I guess? The point is, we merged into one, and ever since, I have a hard time being without him, which isn't completely ludicrous if you know me well enough, which you probably don't. Don't feel bad about that, it's my fault really; I don't let anyone know me all that well. It'd be bad for business. Bad for many things. I'll let you in on something I'd never admit to anyone: I can't bear being alone. Never could. I just feel so lost in the absence of someone else to ground me. The burden of being an identical twin, is my theory. From my first heartbeat, I've had someone next to me. A partner in crime (Richie isn't really much of a partner in crime, per se, but he's always been exactly what I need. I like to think he needs me too. This is the really awful thing about attachment: you end up looking pathetic and needy if your feelings aren't reciprocated). I hear things sometimes, my mind spinning so out of control it's hard to keep a grasp on what's real and what my mind has curated. Having someone around helps with that. Not just anyone though. Someone like Rich. Someone like Seb.

He's got such a tough, steely exterior, does Seb. Puts up a tough guy front that you wouldn't question if you didn't know where to look. And, of course, if you live with him, and get to witness first hand the cracks in the wall he's put up to shield himself from the world and its shittiness. It's quite a frequent occurrence that he's spaced out, frozen stiff at the most random of moments, eyes witnessing something no one else does, and mentally, within seconds, he's somewhere entirely different. Somewhere deep into the past where he's in a desert, gun in hand, bullets screaming around him in a frenzy, tearing his skin, a bomb exploding, firing shrapnel across his face, his chest, arms, legs, emotional stability. Thus the Tiger is created, his skin a mosaic of beauty, a haunting memory, a ghost of the worst time in his life.

I can't stand to leave him in that monster of his memory for any longer than I can help it. Usually putting a hand on his arm is enough to jolt him back to the present, his eyes still glazed and unfocused, voice a mumble. Sit down with me, Sebby. I fancy a cuppa. Do you? I'll make us one. Here, hold the mug. It's kinda chilly, don't you think? I like to focus on the warmth of the mug. What was that book you were reading yesterday? You know, the one with the really bright cover. Oh yeah? Any good? What's it about? Uh huh. Oh cool, really? How do you think it's going to end? Have you watched that new Netflix thing yet? Me neither! Do you think it looks good? Maybe we could watch it later. Anything to get him to remember that he's safe, he's home. With me. Getting him to focus his attention on things he can feel (the heat of the mug), a great grounding technique, I've found. Get him to think about other things, his book, some questions he has to think about properly, to pull his attention away from the awful scenes his brain is assaulting him with. Netflix? Yeah, a gentle reminder that he's in a space without danger. I make it sound simple. It's not. It's hours worth of effort (none that I mind exerting. Anything for my Tiger), because as soon as his mind has receded, it's so easy for him to slip back into that dark space.

He'd never tell me that this was what was going on on the inside. Tough guys don't like to show you where they're soft. I'd let him talk if he ever felt the need to, listen to him divulge the visions that plague his consciousness. I'm not sure how to get him to get to that place of emotionally vulnerability with me, so for the time being, I'll continue this way, never drawing attention to what we both know is happening. He knows I know, of course. The day following, when he's recovered to his baseline level, are full of appreciative glances, unspoken gratitude in our exchanged smiles.

He thrashes in his sleep. Nightmares. More PTSD. Insomnia and I are quite good chums (have been for years! What a wonderfully faithful companion!) so I often hear him in the space between our bedrooms. On the worse nights, he talks, a muttering, sweaty mess, sheets tangled around him, screaming. Screaming for his brother. Screaming at his father for KILLING SEVERIN! YOU KILLED HIM! YOU SENT HIM THERE AND NOW HE'S DEAD! It's torture to listen to. Definitely not as torturous as being inside his head. If I woke him up every time he got a little distressed while asleep, he'd never sleep. I don't let him suffer on the more severe nights. I get a glass of water, slip into his room. Shake his arm gently. Hey, Sebby. Tiger... Wake up. You're okay, you're safe... He wakes up flustered, embarrassed, eyes foggy with sleep, chest rising and falling rapidly. Have something to drink. You're all sweaty and gross. Best replace some of those fluids. That usually gets a fuck off, which I never mind, because it's always with a smile, no matter how fleeting or weak it may be, and he always has something to drink. There's a silence between us in these times, one I'm reluctant to fill because I like to give him the opportunity to say something. He's yet to have taken that opportunity, which is fine. Want me to leave you alone? Uh, well- Seb language for 'no, but I don't want you to know that'. Mind if I stick around? Work is boring me to death. I could use a break. Let him think he's doing me a favour, that he's letting me stay because I want to, not because he's scared to be alone in the dark.